The Labyrinth Behind the Mask
by LouieStein
Summary: A retelling of the classic tale—a young Swedish soprano is entangled in the messy plot unveiled within the Maison d’Opera et de Rock. I use an online Swedish translator for the dialogue in Swedish. Please correct me if you see a mistake!
1. Chapter 1

Carlotta smirked at the little voice that came from within her new subject. She hardly knew the girl. She was new to the scene--that much could be ascertained from the tiny girl with the neatly spiked curls. She used to be a backup dancer, until the act's producer found her singing sweetly in the wings.

An aging star at la Maison d'Opéra et de Rock, Carlotta had it all. Influence, skill, and though her looks were fading, she still had a host of adoring fans. But this girl, this Christine Daae--she was sitting on a far bigger money pile, a funny little word that was worth its weight in francs--and that word was talent.

Carlotta never had talent--all she had was buckets of hard work and a lucky break--and that would be all she ever confessed to as long as she lived. The little soprano arced--her voice leapt, and Carlotta had to hold back her shock. Less than perfect, but how much training had she gotten to have a chance of reaching that note? Carlotta shook her head and got up from the seat. One of the managers took her hand and pulled her back. Carlotta turned and glared at him.

"Carlotta, dearest," the manager, M. Moncharmin said. "Do you think a little thing like her could replace you?"

"You'd think not, but I know you would," Carlotta huffed and wrenched her hand away. She was in the wings and up the steps to her private dressing room before the managers could call her a second time. She paused at the door, seeing a quaint letter jammed into the space between the wood and frame. She opened the door and caught it as it swept to the floor. She lit a cigarette and used it to melt the wax seal of a skull, his trademark. Carlotta watched it drip into the waste bin, blew on the remaining wax, and pried the letter open with one long fingernail. The words were written in red ink, scrawled in furious, fanatical script.

She drew in a puff. His empty threats were nothing compared to the letter from the average fanboy, scraped out in blood or tears or whatever was the norm. Threatening to kill themselves for her sake, as if she were some kind of Venus. Venus, ugh. Carlotta winced. She'd never do a show naked like that again. And that wig she swore had some sort of vermin packed into it that got all over her pale wrinkled body. She had to wash for a month before the itching stopped.

 _You will not be Marguerite in Faust._

-O. G.

Carlotta laughed, then penned out her reply.

Christine Daae had never heard her name spoken so many times before, and all with those pristine French voices speaking it at her, it was the only phrase she really understood. Up until recently, besides one childhood visit to Calais, Christine had never employed the French language, and even after much practice it was still malformed and stuck in her throat like vomit.

Now a translator was taking the gibberish and feeding it to her so quickly that she only caught snatches under the uproar--a dressing room, next to Carlotta's, and she could try for a role in Faust, and that the schedule here was very strict, that she had to keep to it if she wanted to become anything.

And all throughout the hubbub, Christine had the sneaking suspicion that something was watching her--

Christine turned, opened her mouth, and started to point.

"Come with me, mademoiselle," an assistant said to Christine's deaf ears, and she was swept away.

"Den man in det loge!" she said.

M. Richard frowned and looked to the translator. "Now, what does that mean?"

The translator frowned. "A man in...I didn't quite catch that last part."

Christine had to shift her thoughts away from what she had seen. Her legs were swept off the ground when they carted her off.

The dressing room, Christine found, was small and no more than a little shabby. The wallpaper was peeling, one of the bulbs around the mirror was burnt out—and that didn't seem to be a new occurrence either. Christine turned and spoke to her guide.

"Room?" She croaked out.

The assistant smiled big and nodded. "Yes, dear—this is your new dressing room."

Christine wanted to tell her she did not want to be toyed around with as the managers' new pet primadonna, but she didn't know any of those words in French, so she simply said, "Yes."

The assistant was confused at first, and then nodded, turning to leave and closing the door behind her. Now Christine was worried—had she said something about rehearsals? Was Christine supposed to fulfill some duty demanded of her in French? She settled down onto the creaky loveseat by the mirror. The mirror was long and glowed from all directions, save for the one faulty bulb. Christine laid back on the seat. A new life had found her, plucked her up by her roots and left her to dry. She barely knew a taste of French and here they all were, spitting it in her face. Christine rolled onto her face and began to cry.

"Child, why are you crying?"

Christine jumped, her face lifting off the pillow. Besides her, the room was empty.

"Som vara det?" she asked.

"Oh, you don't…" the voice paused. "Saga svenska fest?"

Christine paused. "Ja."

" _Do not be frightened,_ " the voice expressed in her home tongue. " _Why were you crying?_ "

" _Because I cannot understand them!_ " Christine said. " _I don't know what they want of me and their interpreter doesn't know half of what he is saying!_ "

" _I see_ ," the voice said. " _And they expect you to sing for them when you cannot comprehend their demands?_ "

" _Exactly!_ " Christine cried. It felt nice to speak to someone who actually understood her. Perhaps a little too nice. " _Where are you?_ " She said, turning in the direction of the voice.

" _Oh, well…_ "

" _Have I gone mad? Am I imagining some sort of relief?_ "

The voice grew frantic. " _No, no, of course not! You mustn't fear for your own sanity! I am...a friend._ "

" _If you are a friend, why do you hide?_ " Christine asked. The voice was all around her; she couldn't narrow it down to one space.

" _That is for your own protection. If anyone knew what I was offering you, well...they might send you back to Sweden._ "

" _I'd give anything to go back there now!_ " Christine said. " _I've spent too long in this tomb of a city to want anything to do with it!_ "

" _I thought you wanted to be a part of this place._ "

" _I do, but…_ " Christine shook her head. " _If I don't learn their horrendous language soon they might as well toss me back on the street, and this is my only chance at an honorable wage!_ " The fear became too much for her, and she began to weep once more.

Behind the mirror, a tall, corpse-like entity lingered, pressing one hand against the glass as the child sobbed.

" _What is your name?_ " the corpse asked. " _Please, tell me._ "

" _C-Christine_ ," the little one said. " _Christine Daae._ "

He sighed, and a gentle smile creased his dry parchment skin. " _Christine Daae, I promise...you will not be on the street again. I will make certain of that._ "

She looked up. " _You?_ "

" _Yes, I am an...angel, of sorts._ " He glanced at the long, torn nails protruding from the tips of his fingers, and lowered his hand. " _I am sent to those who are blessed with the gift of music, sent to raise them up, strengthen their voices._ "

" _How can I believe you?_ " Christine said.

He chuckled. " _Look around! Do you see any sign of me, save for my voice?_ "

Christine paused. " _No, I suppose not._ "

" _Please, believe me, then. I will give you a life you could only dream of under my guidance._ "

Christine looked around once more. Perhaps it was not such a terrible thought, being taught by an angel--an angel that understood her as she understood him.

" _Teach me, then._ " she said. " _Teach me to sing._ "


	2. Chapter 2

"Madame Carlotta, meet Mademoiselle Daae," said M. Moncharmin. "Mademoiselle Daae, Madame Carlotta."

"Bonjour," Christine attempted. Many people were taller than her, but the primadonna towered over her. She had an air of confidence and power that Christine knew came from years of building a reputation. The time spent in the Opera before being noticed for her voice was as a backup dancer—she had seen Carlotta's performances, concert and otherwise. The primadonna may have been older than most singers, but with that came an understanding of the business—experience. If Carlotta was terrifying, it was because she knew exactly what she was doing.

"My pleasure," Carlotta jawed tensely. The little dancer peered up at her with huge hazel eyes, silent. She frowned.

"Mademoiselle does not speak French," M. Richard cut in. "Her first language is Swedish."

Carlotta rolled her eyes as a translator, previously hidden from her view, repeated her words to the little Daae.

"Carlotta, you will be coaching Mam'selle Daae to sing the part of Marguerite in this season's production of Faust."

Carlotta spun. " _What_?"

"Mam'selle Daae has much potential—"

"That part was promised to me!" Carlotta growled. "My contract—"

"She is to be your understudy," M. Moncharmin sighed.

Carlotta paused. "Ah."

The managers seemed worn from the conversation. M. Richard found the door out and opened it to the two sopranos. "Rehearsals will start tomorrow, Madame, and I believe it would be best if you pick up a Swedish dictionary by then."

The translator said as much was needed to the Little Daae, and then she was scurrying after her superior out the door.

When they were alone, Carlotta turned and looked at the girl. She wasn't too young—probably just turned twenty by the looks of it. Her skin was dark, nearly ebony brown that made her short blonde hair stand out even more.

"I know you don't understand me," Carlotta said. "But I'm going to tell you, anyways, and maybe you'll catch my meaning. I don't like you. You being here means that I'm going to be gone soon. So, to me, you are a little worm. You mean nothing to me." Her last words were a hiss. Christine's eyes were wide—just as was expected, she understood tone just fine.

Carlotta recomposed herself and marched away, leaving the Little Daae to pick up her dust.

Christine was about to follow when she saw something move—they were standing in a nearly barren corridor, save for a bust of a Frenchman. It was moving.

"Nej! Dröjde!" Christine cried. "Se ut!"

Carlotta turned around. "You know I don't—"

The bust crashed into the wall beside her. Carlotta gasped.

"You tried to kill me!" she shrieked. "You little monster!"

Christine could see now she was in trouble. She put her hands before her, as if to defend herself somehow. "Nej, nej! I hjälpte var!"

"Well, if you didn't do it," Carlotta snarled, then balked. She looked up and around herself. Her eyes traced lines in the walls. The corridor was silent. "So," she muttered. "He's at it again."

Without glancing back at Christine, Carlotta headed away, carried by a more contemplative cloud.

Christine watched her in confusion, then followed again, glancing at the shattered bust on the floor. It seemed hollow enough to be lifted, but even her dancer's arms would not be able to hoist and launch it at Carlotta. She shook her head. Something was going on here, and Christine wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Carlotta slammed the door behind her when she entered the dressing room. Her eyes were set on the mirror above her vanity, and she sat down and scowled into it.

"If you think for one second that I will permit you to take Faust from me, you are wrong." Carlotta spat at the mirror. "I know the opera like the back of my hand. I have always been Marguerite. I have been for decades—and why? People can rely upon me. I am here because of _me_." Carlotta bashed the desk with her fist. "She may be talented, but she will never be ready. Not while I live and breathe."


End file.
